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THE LIGHTHOUSEhands over all the weakness and suffering of mankind;she thought he was surveying, tolerantly, compassion-ately, their final destiny. Now he has crowned theoccasion, she thought, when his hand slowly fell, asif she had seen him let fall from his great height awreath of violets and asphodels which, flutteringslowly, lay at length upon the earth.

Quickly, as if she were recalled by something overthere, she turned to her canvas. There it was — herpicture. Yes, with all its green and blues, its lines run-ning up and across, its attempt at something. It wouldbe hung in the attics, she thought; it would be de-stroyed. But what did that matter? she asked herself,taking up her brush again. She looked at the steps;they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it wasblurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw itclear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre.It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, layingdown her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had myvision.

[Penciled note]Paris. April 1933.